


Late Night Visitor

by theglitterati



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Character Study, Friendship, Gen, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 10:19:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16061072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theglitterati/pseuds/theglitterati
Summary: After Carter's death, Reese is falling to pieces, and Shaw is left to clean up the mess. Set just after Simmons' arrest.





	Late Night Visitor

There’s a knock at the door. Shaw’s gun is in her hand before she’s even really awake.

The clock on the nightstand glows red, makes Shaw squint. 2:23 in the morning. Definitely outside visiting hours.

She slips out of bed and walks on tiptoes to the door. Her footsteps don’t make a sound – Shaw was destined to be either a spy or a ballerina.

She stands to the left of the door, gun ready, in case whoever’s outside brought a battering ram.

“Who the hell is it?” she calls.

“Girl scout,” a voice answers. “Want to buy some cookies?”

Shaw rolls her eyes. “Not particularly.” She lowers the gun. She knows that voice. “You alone?”

“There’s some Mormons out here, too.”

“I will shoot you through the door, jackass.”

There’s a pause, then Shaw hears a soft thud, like her guest just put his head against the door.

“Shaw. Let me in. Please.”

 _Oh, so he does actually know that word,_ Shaw thinks as she unlocks the door.

She opens it, then blinks in surprise.

“Whoa. You look like complete shit.”

“Thank you,” Reese says. He shoulders past her, not waiting for an invitation inside. “You look pretty good, Shaw, though you might want to run a brush though your hair.” Shaw narrows her eyes.

She watches Reese as he wanders into her apartment, which he’s never been in before, and goes right for the kitchen cabinets. She knows what he’s looking for, but she lets him fumble around in the dark. Finally, he finds the right door. Pulls out a bottle of whiskey and drinks straight from it.

“I haven’t had a chance to doll myself up yet, considering I was sleeping until two minutes ago,” Shaw says. “Until your drunk ass came in and started drinking my booze. Do you want to tell me why you’re here, John?”

Reese puts the bottle down and shrugs off his jacket. One side of his white shirt is stained with blood.

“That yours?” Shaw asks.

Reese pulls back his collar, revealing a gunshot wound on his right shoulder.

“I need a doctor,” he says.

“Damn,” Shaw says. She pulls a chair from her dining table, spins it around. “Sit,” she orders Reese. “And for god's sake, stop drinking. You’re not bleeding out all over my floor.”

Shaw goes to the bathroom to get the first aid kit. She expects to find Reese exactly where she left him, drinking in her kitchen, when she returns. Instead, surprisingly, he’s slumped in the chair, comically large in her tiny Ikea furniture.

She pulls the other chair around to sit in front of him and turns on the lamp on the table. Pulls back his collar to examine the wound. It’s not too bad – no broken bones, no nicked arteries. The bullet’s still in there, though. Shaw lights a match to sterilize her tweezers.

Reese is slouched over, half-conscious. He needs to stay awake.

“So who shot you?” Shaw asks, the way you might ask someone to pass the salt. “Far as I know, we don’t have a new number.”

“We don’t,” Reese agrees. “This was… extracurricular.”

“Uh-huh.” Shaw’s done with the tweezers. “This is gonna hurt,” she warns Reese.

The bullet’s in pretty deep, but Shaw’s done this more times than she can count. She grabs it and pulls, and it slides out smoothly. Just like playing Operation. Although, in Operation, your patient isn't looking at you like you’re going to be his next victim.

“Got it,” Shaw says. She holds it up for Reese to examine.

“Can I start drinking again?” is all he says.

“Not yet, buddy. You need alcohol on that wound more than you need it in your mouth.” Shaw pulls an alcohol wipe from the first aid kit. “This is also gonna hurt.” Reese grits his teeth while she cleans out the wound.

“So,” Shaw continues, “I’m guessing the reason you turned up on my doorstep instead of Harold’s is that he doesn’t approve of your extracurriculars?”

“Last time I checked, Harold’s not a doctor.”

Shaw grabs another wipe, cleans up some of the blood around the wound. “Still,” she says. “It’s not like you to hide something from him. Or me,” she adds. She stops wiping. “I can keep a secret from dad, you know.”

“Please don’t call Finch dad,” Reese says with a sigh. He brings a hand to his face, rubs his eyes. He looks more tired than Shaw has ever seen him.

“Low-level HR,” he finally says. “That’s what I’ve been doing. There was a few of them that Joss— that the cops missed. I’ve been making sure they get found.”

Shaw’s eyes flick up to meet his. “You been killing them?” she asks.

“Kneecaps,” he says. “Then I deliver them to Lionel. I don’t want them dead. I want them locked up.”

Shaw isn’t sure that was really what Reese wanted. But it _is_ what someone else would have wanted, and Reese wouldn’t do anything that she wouldn’t have agreed with, even now. Shaw doesn’t bring it up. Starts stitching him up instead.

“Anyway,” Reese says. “The guy whose door I knocked on tonight was expecting me. He shot before I could even get a word out.”

“And how are his knees?”

“They’ve been better,” Reese says. A hint of a smile flickers across his face. Shaw’s happy to see it, but she can’t quite tell if it’s real or not.

She ties off the last stich and puts a bandage over the wound. “All right, you’re done,” she says. “Change that thing twice a day. Maybe take antibiotics if you can find some.”

“Thanks Shaw,” Reese says. “You’re a very useful friend to have.”

“Charming.”

Reese goes for the whiskey bottle again. Shaw pulls it across the table, out of his reach.

“I’m about to be even more useful: you’re cut off for the night. I can still smell the booze on you, and you can’t raise your blood-alcohol level any more with a wound like that.” Reese opens his mouth to protest, but Shaw cuts him off. “You need water, and you need sleep. Either you’re getting in a cab and going home, or you’re sleeping here where I can keep an eye on you.”

“You making a move on me, Sameen?”

“Not fucking likely,” Shaw says. “That couch is pretty comfortable.” She gestures to the sofa.

“You’re joking,” Reese says. The sofa’s really more of a loveseat; it’s only five feet long.

Shaw sighs deeply. “Fine,” she says. “I’ll take the couch, and you can have the bed. But if I see one drop of blood, or worse, drool, on my pillow tomorrow, you’re a dead man. Got it?”

Shaw expects another snide comment in response; Drunk Reese can be a bit of a dick. But all he says is, “Thanks, Shaw,” in a quiet voice.

Shaw puts a hand on his not-shot shoulder. “You’re welcome. Now, I’m going to put this stuff away. Make yourself comfortable. But not too comfortable.”

Shaw gathers up her first aid kit and heads back into the bathroom to get ready for bed, again. When she comes out, Reese is already tucked into her bed, his shoes and stained shirt on the floor.

“Comfy,” he says.

“You tell Finch, Root, or Detective Dopey about this, I’ll kick your ass,” Shaw says. She notes he’s poured himself a glass of water for the nightstand, though, so that’s something.

As she goes to turn the lamp off, Shaw swears that, just for a second, she sees something liquid on Reese’s face. Not blood or sweat, though there’s plenty of that too, but tears, catching the light and reflecting it back at her. Just a glimmer, and then he moves his head, and it’s gone.

She turns off the lamp, rolling her eyes at the thought. Reese probably isn’t even capable of crying after his time in the CIA. Much like herself, he has different ways of expressing emotion, and all of them involve a gun.

Shaw shakes her head and goes to the couch, which accommodates her tiny frame nicely. She pulls the throw blanket down from the back of it and covers herself up.

“Goodnight, jackass,” Shaw calls across the room. It’s dark but for moonlight, and she can just make out the large lump of Reese’s shape in her bed.

“Night, Shaw,” comes his reply.

As soon as her head hits the pillow, Shaw’s beat. Being woken up in the night and made to play doctor by a drunk colleague/hitman can be exhausting. She shuts her eyes, and immediately falls asleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> come yell with me at kyrstin.tumblr.com


End file.
